


death and all his friends

by steelplatedhearts



Series: War Paint and Cyanide Pills [6]
Category: Inglourious Basterds (2009), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Crossover, Gen, General Creepiness, Implied Torture, psychological fuckery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-04
Updated: 2012-12-04
Packaged: 2017-11-20 06:05:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/582107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/steelplatedhearts/pseuds/steelplatedhearts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Q is rescued from captivity by an unlikely savior, who can't explain why she saved him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	death and all his friends

**Author's Note:**

> Someday I'm going to go back and put all these in the right order, but today is not that day. This one is set long after Shosanna and Silva first start dealing with MI6 on a regular basis.  
> Also, thank you thank you thank you to everyone that's read these! I honestly thought I would be writing for an audience that consisted solely of myself, so the fact that people are actually reading these means so much to me :)

His captors might be skilled in the art of pain, but Q is skilled in the art of being a stubborn little shit, so he doesn’t give them anything they can use.

He gives them plenty of other things, though. Things like his favorite breakfast cereal (Frosted Flakes) and anecdotes from the tube ride to work and an amusing story about the time he got lost on a trip to Paris with his family when he was thirteen.

They don’t think these stories are so amusing. They ramp up the pain until all he can do is scream, but he still isn’t giving them anything.

Eventually, they get bored. They take him back to his little cell, say something about beginning negotiations, and leave him alone in the dark. He tips his head back against the wall and closes his eyes, listing off prime numbers in his head.

MI6 will send someone. He just has to hold on till then.

*   *   *   *   *

Three days later, someone comes.

He can hear the gunfire and the shouting, and he bunkers down in a corner, just in case whoever’s showed up isn’t entirely friendly.

Silence falls after about fifteen minutes, and Q holds his breath. “Get away from the door,” he hears a woman say, and he has just enough time to scramble to the corner and curl up in a ball before the wall explodes.

When the dust clears, his savior is revealed to be none other than Shosanna Dreyfus.

He blinks in confusion as she crosses to him, kneeling down and checking him for wounds. “You look like shit, Q.”

“You don’t look so hot yourself,” he says in a daze, taking in the blood and bruises on her face. She shrugs.

“I’ve been worse.” She drags him up, half-carrying him outside. “Hell, I’ve _done_ worse.”

She helps him into the passenger’s seat. “Get some rest,” she says. “We’ll get you fixed up soon enough.”

Q has questions, but he senses now is not the time. Shosanna has a death grip on the steering wheel, her knuckles white, and looks more murderous than normal.

If she wants to kill him, she already could have. So he relaxes, and falls asleep in minutes.

*   *   *   *   *

When he wakes, he’s been carefully bandaged up and changed into soft pyjamas. He’s in a small, rather uncomfortable bed, his glasses on the side table. Putting them on, he can see Shosanna sitting in a chair by the window, cleaning her gun slowly and methodically.

“Where are we?” he asks.

She doesn’t even look up. “You don’t need to know where. It’s safe, that’s all that matters.”

“How long was I out?”

“About two days.”

He exhales, running his fingers through his hair. “Are you going to take me home?”

She puts down her gun and stares him straight in the eyes. “No. Not yet. I have questions first.”

“I didn’t tell those people anything,” Q says, tensing up. “I’m not going to tell _you_ anything either.”

She snorts. “What, do you think I want MI6 secrets? Fancy military codes? Hardly. You’re missing the big question here.” She smirks. “I thought you were supposed to be a genius.”

“All right,” Q says, annoyed. “So what’s the big question I’m missing?”

She shrugs. “Simple: why am I here?”

And then it becomes terrifyingly clear.

“You care whether I live or die, so you came to rescue me,” he says, slowly. “And you don’t know why, do you?”

“No,” Shosanna says, staring out the window. “I don’t.”

“And you’re keeping me here until you figure it out?”

She smirks. “I knew you were smart.”

*   *   *   *   *

“Will Silva be joining us?” he asks.

“No,” she says. “He doesn’t know where I am, I think.”

Q raises his eyebrows.

“Well, we’re not joined at the hip!” Shosanna says, defensive. “We spend time apart. Not much, but some.”

“So on your time off, you go rescue techs,” he says. “What does he do?”

“He goes and finds Bond,” she says. “That’s probably where he is right now, actually. I think Bond’s down in South America, so Raoul will be down there too.”

 Q thinks of Bond and Silva, down at the equator, where it’s sunny and beautiful. “Are you jealous?”

“You know,” she says, considering, “I don’t think I am.”

“I’d be jealous if my boyfriend was off fucking a dashing secret agent while I was holed up psychoanalyzing myself,” Q says.

She doesn’t even glare at him. “Well, the boys need their playdates. Just as long as he knows that he’s mine. As long as he comes home.” She frowns. “And he’s not my boyfriend.”

“Of course he’s not,” Q deadpans. Now she _does_ glare at him, and he hastily backpedals. “Okay, platonic life partner, whatever works.”

*   *   *   *   *

“Maybe,” he says one day, “you’re saving me because if you don’t, Bond’ll be cross, and then Silva will be cross.”

“No,” Shosanna says. “I don’t actually give a shit whether Mr. Bond lives or dies, let alone if he’s cross.”

“Not even for Silva’s sake?”

That gives her pause, but she shakes her head. “No. Raoul would be very sad for a while, I’m sure, if Bond died. Bond is his last link to that woman, so losing him would be…difficult. But he’d move on, eventually. Most people do.”

“Has he moved on from M yet, then?” Q asks, and knows the answer without her having to do more than narrow her eyes.

*   *   *   *   *

“You’re not interesting enough for me to give a shit about you,” she says. “You fight in power lines, in numbers.”

“And that’s not interesting?”

She shifts in her seat, restless. “Let’s see you up to your elbows in blood, then we’ll talk.”

“I must be a little interesting,” he says. “Or else you wouldn’t be here.”

She ignores him.

*   *   *   *   *

“Do you ever think about dying?” Shosanna asks one morning, apropos of seemingly nothing.

“I try not to,” he says. She walks over to the window and stares out at the rain pouring down. She’s quiet for long enough that Q thinks she’s done talking.

“Someday you’ll die, little quartermaster,” she says suddenly. “Maybe you’ll retire peacefully and die of old age. Maybe you’ll knock over a candle and burn down your house. Or trip walking down the stairs and break your neck.” She turns to him, green eyes intense. “But if anyone’s going to murder you, it’s going to be me.”

“How would you do it?” he asks, staring her straight in the face. She leans down, running the backs of her fingers along his neck.

“I’d want to slit your throat,” she says softly. “It would be beautiful, I think.”

“But you wouldn’t.” It is not a question, even though he thinks it should be.

“No,” she says, shaking her head. “I wouldn’t.” She studies him for a moment. “I’d break your neck, I think.”

He knows that this is a kindness. “Thank you.”

“Well, that’s it, then,” she says, obviously displeased. “A simple enough explanation, after all.”

Q sighs. “Maybe you just need a friend.” She freezes, and he pushes on. “A real one, that you care about like a normal person would. Maybe you just sort of picked me because you were my secretary for four months.”

She abruptly stands and walks into the kitchen, returning a moment later with a glass of water.

“I think you’re ready to go home,” she says, thrusting the glass at him. Her eyes are completely blank, sending chills down Q’s spine. He stares down at the cup in his hands.

_But if anyone’s going to murder you, it’s going to be me._

“It’s not poisoned,” she says. “But you’ll be unconscious for a while. I don’t want you knowing where this house is.”

“Was it something I said?” he asks dryly.

“I don’t _need_ anyone,” she says, face expressionless. “Drink up.”

So he does.

*   *   *   *   *

When he arrives back in London, he’s debriefed and goes right back to work. He watches bad telly with Eve in the evenings, he goes out drinking with the other members of Q branch for someone’s birthday, and life is normal.

Bond is back from South America, slightly tanner than normal and walking with the self-satisfied air that means a job well done. Neither of them talk about their visits with criminals, but they both know that the visits happened.

He reads online about a vicious, brutal triple murder when he’s on the train on his first day back to work. The policeman standing in front of a wall splattered with blood like some abstract artwork calls it “a crime of passion.”

Q disagrees. If anything, this is a crime of confusion, of someone who has feelings that they don’t know what to do with, so they channel it into anger and murder.

The article says that the authorities are following up on leads, but Q knows they won’t find anything. The killer is long gone, driving around Europe with her platonic life partner.

He thinks about death a lot more often, these days. He keeps hearing _but if anyone’s going to murder you, it’s going to be me_ echoing in his mind.

He finds it oddly comforting. There are worse ways to die.


End file.
